


Dust and Moonlight

by casualcastle



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: AU: Tucker's a Musician, Chorus Trilogy (Red vs. Blue), Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-29 00:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20787830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualcastle/pseuds/casualcastle
Summary: Everyone has different ways of finding peace of mind in a war zone.





	1. After Midnight

In Armonia the average soldier is getting about six good hours of sleep every night, maybe four if they’re restless.

Washington gets two and a half on a good day.

And for him that really is a good day; any more than that and he risks getting into a deep sleep, which he decided when he got to Chorus was not something he was interested in dealing with. Back in Freelancer everyone knew, and of course the Reds and Blues know, but he’s been trying to make a good impression on the soldiers here and he doesn’t think being known as the crazy old soldier would be good for his reputation.

So, Washington has a routine. 

  1. Set an alarm every hour on the hour.
  2. Sleep.
  3. Get up for at least 10 minutes after each one goes off.
  4. Sleep.
  5. Repeat.

It’s not healthy by any standard, but Washington has grown used to living in a perpetual state of exhaustion. And besides: if a system works it works. Until it doesn’t.

The thought doesn’t have time to grace his mind when he jolts up from where he fell asleep at his desk almost three hours ago. Wash fists his hands desperately into the fabric of his shirt and pushes himself violently against the back of his chair, tipping him backward. He crashes to the floor with a loud thud, legs flailing. He gasps for air and balls himself up on the floor holding one shaking hand to the back of his neck, covering his implants.

He sits like that for a few minutes taking uneven, ragged breaths until he feels calm enough to sit up. Pushing himself off the floor Wash leans himself against the side of his cot and looks up at the digital clock on his desk. It reads: 2:33am.

“Jesus Christ,” Wash breathes through a long exhale. He rubs a hand down his face before easing himself into a stand.

He needs some air.

With that thought Wash walks over to the door, shoulders slumped in resignation, still trying to shake himself back to consciousness.

//

The hallways are always quiet this time of night, _ and for good reason _ Wash thinks. It’s almost three in the morning. No one in their right mind should be up this late, especially on a military base.

Soldiers should be well rested, ready for anything. Wash thinks bitterly that if someone were to infiltrate their base right now he probably wouldn’t stand a chance, wandering the halls in a t-shirt and sweatpants. He tenses slightly at the thought and is about to return to his room when he hears it, muffled and distant: a piano.

It’s not like they _ never _ listen to music on Chorus. Wash knows all the Reds and Blues (highly eccentric) music preferences and most of the privates Wash trains have music downloaded on their data pads, but it’s all from before the war started. There hasn’t exactly been time for musicianship on Chorus lately. That isn’t a priority when you’re fighting a war. There are always more important things to be concerned with.

Namely, staying alive.

But right now Washington doesn’t think of any of those things. He doesn’t think of anything except for the soft melody floating down the hall. He thought at first he might be hallucinating the sound because he’s never heard this. Not on Chorus, not in Valhalla, not in Freelancer, not even before the war.It’s an odd feeling, thinking of a time before semi-automatic guns and simulation troopers, but he does. He thinks of a house and a kid and a violin, and wonders distractedly if he’ll ever see one of those again.

Right now, though, he can’t hear a violin. He hears something different: Something familiar but…new.

Wash drags his feet across the floor of the hallway, eyes wide with fascination. Everything leaves him, and he feels himself pulled by the sound of a solo piano, melody light and peaceful and absolutely calling him.

The sound grows gradually louder, and eventually Wash halts in front of a small storage closet. The door is closed, and Wash reaches for the handle before he can stop himself. His mind catches up just in time and his hand freezes, hovering just above it. He stands like that for a minute, fingers slowly curling back in as his hand comes to rest at his side. He relishes in the flood of sound coming from the room, letting it sweep over him as he closes his eyes and exhales silently.

The song comes to a quiet close, and Wash’s eyes flutter open with the sudden silence. He doesn’t fully have time to process the loss of sound before it’s back, and again: it’s different. It’s new and refreshing and so unbelievably soothing that Washington can’t stop the quiet whimper that escapes him. He takes another deep breath, every muscle in his body going slack, and the weight of it feels like two tons pressing down on him. It’s all he can do not to crumple to the floor right there, so he pushes his back to the wall right next to the door and slowly slides himself down to the cold metal ground.

Maybe it’s the music, or the incredible lack of sleep, but when Wash’s arms brush against the freezing steel wall the sensation is stiflingly sharp. Goosebumps spread from his forearms to his shoulders and he shudders at the feeling. _ Such a simple thing _ he thinks as he looks down at his arms, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Beautiful dynamic melodies continue to stream from the storage closet. They come in waves: consistent and seemingly endless.

Wash rests his head against the wall as his eyes slip closed, desperate to drink in every note, to commit every song to memory, to remember the feeling. _ This _feeling. He opens his mouth in a breathless silent laugh and, to his surprise, feels tear tracks running down his face and neck.

He doesn’t open his eyes or move to wipe the tears away. Wash doesn’t move a muscle. He just sits there, leaning against the corridor wall, and breathes. He listens and breathes, listens and breathes until slowly, he falls into a calm dreamless sleep.

//

Tucker carefully closes the fallboard on a beautiful jet black upright piano and pushes himself off the empty storage crate he found in place of a bench. He stands in front of the piano for a moment, running his hands along the top of it. He smiles to himself thinking about how he found the instrument. 

It had been a miracle it was even there in the first place and an even more incredible feat that he found it in this tiny storage closet at the back of the base. He’d actually just been trying to hide from Carolina after he ran his mouth too much during one of their training sessions. Tucker had ducked into the closet as fast as he could. He found the piano there, surrounded by storage crates and covered in dirt and dust. He’d looked at it in disbelief, then reached out to touch it as if to make sure it was real, tracing his hand over the dusty fallboard and lifting it slowly.

To his surprise there were no keys missing. Actually, other than the dust and the fact that it was probably all kinds of out of tune, the little upright had been in pretty good shape. Tucker sucked in a breath, and cautiously pressed down on middle C.

The sound was immediate, filling the space with something Tucker hadn’t heard in a long time and, honestly, something he never thought he would hear again.

It flooded his mind with memories. Memories of a house and a kid and a keyboard. It was a life that felt so foreign to him now, but as he began wiping the dust off the old Steinway he couldn’t help but wonder how much he remembered.

As it turns out, Tucker’s muscle memory didn’t fail him.

He found a set of piano tuning tools in one of the crates and set to work every night for two weeks struggling to recall bits and pieces of a time before the war when he had helped his mother tune their old piano. It was cathartic, in a way, to recall something that had been so ingrained in his identity. It felt like lifetimes ago.

Once he got the piano tuned it was hard for him to think about anything else. It was a giddy feeling he didn’t know he could still get, like a kid in a candy store. Every night he ventured over to the storage closet and played, sometimes for hours, anything he could remember. Some of it was bits and pieces, fragments of songs from a different time, a different place.

Tucker found after a few weeks that what he liked most was the improvisation: filling in the missing pieces, making it his own. He’d never been keen on it back when…well, before now. He found himself craving it, the unexpectedness of it. It was something new and different and undeniably his.

Now, as Tucker makes to leave the storage closet for the evening he wonders if this was supposed to be someone else’s project, wonders if they were also searching for that thread of normalcy, for something once familiar.

_ Probably a kid who lived and died for this shitty war. A kid who’ll never get that chance. _

Tucker clenches his fists at the thought and his jaw tightens. _ For both of us _ he thinks, inexplicably, _ I’ll play for both of us _. It’s a promise he makes to himself in this moment: a promise to remember. He has to remember.

He takes a deep breath and slips out the door as quietly as he can, careful not to slam it behind him. It’s a good thing Tucker turns back to the door as he shuts it, otherwise he might have missed the figure hunched over against the wall. A spike of panic runs through Tucker before he realizes Wash is asleep.

Tucker has seen Wash sleep before, or, rather, take 20-minute power naps in power armor in the middle of the day. He’s never seen Wash like this: open and vulnerable, two things he wouldn’t let happen if he were conscious. Tucker doesn’t read too much into why Wash is asleep outside a random storage closet, but instead chooses to focus on the fact that this is probably the first time the guy has _ really _ slept since they set up shop in Armonia. His under eye bags have been getting darker by the day, and the lack of sleep does absolutely nothing for his mood. So yeah, Tucker’s not about to disturb the peace.

A shiver suddenly runs down his spine and he rubs his hands up and down his arms. _ Christ, why does it get so fuckin’ cold here at night? _ Tucker thinks bitterly. He looks down at Wash, then towards the hallway leading to his room, then back at Wash. He smiles a little, rolling his eyes as he starts down the hallway.

//

Washington wakes up slowly. His head feels fuzzy and his thoughts come to him gradually, which is weird considering the only time that ever happens is when you sleep for more than 4 hours at a time, and that’s just not something Agent Washington does. At least, not since arriving in Armonia.

He stands abruptly, leaning heavily against the wall and blinking away any remnants of sleep. There’s sun streaming in through a nearby window, and Washington quietly curses to himself. It must be at least 0900, which means-

“Shit,” Wash breathes as he breaks away from the wall. He was supposed to have had training with the lieutenants this morning at 0800, _ What am I gonna tell Kimball? _ The thought sends anxiety coursing through his veins, and he barely registers the blanket laying at his feet before he takes off down the hallway at a dead sprint. He stops at his room first (and probably sets the record time for changing into power armor) then tears down the corridor to the training room. He’s got a hand to hand session with the Captains at 0930 and he’s not about to miss two training sessions in one day.

_ I am never sleeping again _ he concedes, determined to do the impossible.

Upon entering the training room Wash realizes he’s a little early for his next session, and is greeted by the sight of Carolina talking to Jensen. _ Presumably about something they did in training. The training I’m supposed to be leading _he thinks regretfully. Jensen eventually scampers off to talk to the other lieutenants and Carolina catches Wash’s eye.

He figures he should just be totally upfront about it, just apologize and offer to take one of her training sessions in exchange. She motions for him to come further into the room. He sucks in a deep breath, and walks towards her.

“I’ll take one of your sessions. To make up for it- for this,” He blurts it out before he’s even made it to her. She does nothing but raise an eyebrow at him. Oh no. “Look, Carolina, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened, I just-” _ fell asleep listening to some mystery musician _.

He hasn’t really thought about it since he woke up, but as soon as the thought crosses his mind it’s all he can think about. It wasn’t a recording. _ Someone was behind that door _ he realizes for the first time. Wash knows because he heard the little changes in tempo and the uneven pauses and new, every song was different and new always new-

“Wash,” Her tone is mildly exasperated, but there’s a smile playing at her lips. His ears go pink as he realizes he’s just been staring at her. He looks down and fumbles with the helmet he’s holding in his hands. When he looks back up she’s looking at him critically. “Was that the first time you’ve slept since we got here?”

“I take naps,” He says automatically, “I get enough sleep to survive, that’s all that matters.”

Carolina sighs, rubbing her eyes with one hand. _ She looks tired too. Everyone’s so goddamn tired _ Wash thinks as she steps closer to him, “I need you to _ function _Wash. Passing out on the floor and missing training sessions does not fall under my definition of functioning.”

He ducks his head under her gaze, “It won’t happen again. I told you I’ll take one of your session- wait, how do you know about-”

“Someone saw you there. Last night,” she says quickly, “We agreed it would be best to let you sleep in a little longer, so I just switched out our names on the schedule this morning.”

“Oh,” Wash blinks at her, but she’s waiting for him to say something, “I, uh-thanks.”

Carolina just rolls her eyes at him and smirks, “Sleep when you’re supposed to and we won’t have to have this conversation again,” she picks up her helmet off a nearby bench and turns to face Wash, “If you don’t I might have to take you up on that offer to train my cadets.”

She only looks mildly serious about the threat, so Wash isn’t too worried about it.

As she walks towards the door something occurs to him, “Carolina,” she turns back around to him, helmet on, “You said ‘we’. Who told you what happened?”

She pauses a second too long, which Wash recognizes as her talking with Epsilon. He can’t read her expression through the visor, but her voice is fond if not a little amused when she speaks, “Someone who just wants you to get some rest once in a while.”

With that she disappears through the doorway, leaving Wash alone in the training room. He waits for the Captains to arrive, his head swimming with songs. Caboose destroys one of the Warthogs and Grif refuses to run more than ½ a lap, but, for some reason, he can’t bring himself to be too upset about it.

And when Wash agrees to Tucker asking him if they can start private close combat weapons training Tucker beams at him. _ Such a simple thing _ Wash thinks for the second time as his cheeks burn under his helmet.

After they’ve discussed some logistics Tucker saunters out of the training room, putting his helmet back on as he goes. Washington watches him leave, sighing and shaking his head slightly.

//

That night as Wash reworks the training schedule to make room for Tucker’s private lessons he lets his thoughts wander back to the storage closet. He wonders if someone’s in there every night, or if it was a one-time thing. He thinks about what Carolina told him, about _ functioning _ over _ surviving _ and wonders if that’s someone’s way of functioning.

He looks at the clock: 2:05am, and looks back at the door.

_ If I’m careful _, Wash thinks as he stands up from his desk to neatly fold the blanket at the foot of his bed. He tucks it under his arm, and looks back at the door. Notes, harmonies, perfect dissonances, they all float through his head. He stutters on his feet, dizzy with the hope of hearing them again. After grabbing a few more things, Wash hastily makes his way to the door.

_ If I’m careful, maybe I can function like this. _ After all, he owes it to them. He owes it to the Rebels, Feds, the Red and Blues, to at least try.

//

Tucker realizes pretty quickly after that night that Wash did not, in fact, fall asleep outside of a random storage closet.

He realizes this on the third straight night he finds Wash leaning against the wall, dead to the world. _ At least he’s bringing his own blanket now _ Tucker thinks absently.

He also notices the alarm clock Wash probably brought from his room. Tucker frowns at it. He’s honestly kind of tempted to turn it off. _ Asshole could use the extra hours _ , but he doesn’t touch it, because he knows if Wash missed his training with the lieutenants again he’d probably have a heart attack or something, and the dude really _ really _ does not need one of those right now.

Instead, Tucker just sighs and makes his way back to his bunk. A smile tugs at his lips, and his chest swells with a mix of pride and…something else. So Wash likes to hear him play. That’s cool. _ I’ll play for both of us _ he thinks for the second time. Another promise.

_ Both of us. _

He stops in the middle of the hallway, turning back around to where Wash is laying. There’s a window across the hall from the closet, and the moonlight pours in, showering Wash in soft blue light.

He looks so different like this, every usually tense line of his body loose with sleep. Even the lines of his face are smooth, the light from the window soothing their harshness. He looks so young this way, _ and, _ Tucker thinks, _ so incredibly human. _

His breath catches in his throat, and it breaks him out of his daze. He quickly spins around, walking determinedly back to his room.

He lays in his bunk thinking of moonlit freckles and quiet promises as he runs a hand over his undercut and through his dreads. He blows out a breath, staring blankly at the ceiling.

_ Maybe I’m not the only one who needs this _.


	2. Better Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey ya'll, long time no see :,) its been almost a year since i updated this fic but i've had it written for almost a year now so i'm just gonna start posting what i have and go from there. hope you guys enjoy this second chapter! hopefully i can get three and four out sooner than i did with this one~

So Washington has a new routine.

One that involves a little more sleeping on the floor and far fewer headaches in the morning. He still only gets about 5 hours of sleep a night, but it’s continuous now and he sleeps soundly. 

He figures whoever’s playing behind that closed door has seen him sleeping there every night, and every night he’s grateful they haven’t questioned it. He tries not to think about what that confrontation would be like, so instead he focuses his energy into figuring out how to structure Tucker’s private lessons.

The only space Wash could fit in their training was the very last block of the day. Fine by him, now he has a valid excuse to stay late in the training room.

He’s trained Tucker before in a group, and he made Tucker do conditioning back at the crash site, but one-on-one close combat training is new for them.

He decides to divide training into in-armor and out of armor sessions, alternating every other day. He wants Tucker to get comfortable with knives with and without power armor on. Wash recalls bitterly Tucker’s latest encounter with a knife, desperately hoping that it’ll be his last.

He tries not to think consciously about the events of that day, but they find themselves in his nightmares more often than not.

His dreams used to be mostly about Freelancer, most of them still are, but the Reds and Blues have made their way into more than one of his night terrors, especially since the Com Tower. He’s had to stop himself on several occasions from busting into his teammates rooms in the middle of the night to make sure they’re still breathing.

He shakes the thought, messaging Tucker their new training schedule.

//

“Hey Wash,” Tucker is lying flat on his back on the training room floor when Wash first walks in. Tucker doesn’t look at him as he walks into the room, but after a moment he props himself up on his elbows and eyes Wash quizzically, “What’s in the bag?”

Wash walks over to the bench closest to Tucker and drops the bag onto it, unzipping it to reveal the contents, “Training knives.”

Tucker’s eyes widened slightly. He pushes himself off the floor and walks over to the bench. “Training knives? Don’t you think we should start with, like, open hand combat? Y’know…for a warmup.”

Wash looks at him, raising an eyebrow, “You asked for weapons training, what did you think we’d be doing?”

Tucker shifts uncomfortably, “I don’t know. I just figured we’d start slow, not jump right into the fucking fire.”

Wash watches Tucker as he eyes the training knives with growing agitation. Wash sighs, picking one of the knives up out of the bag. “You need to get comfortable being in close combat. I assumed that was why you wanted these lessons in the first place,” He holds the knife out to Tucker, who only hesitates a second before taking the knife from his hand.

He holds the handle with one hand, tentatively running his other over the blade. His shoulders relax suddenly, “It’s rubber?”

“Yeah,” Wash looks at him with amusement as he continues to inspect the blade, “You’ve never used one before?”

Tucker glances up at Wash indignantly, “I have a sword dude. I don’t fuck with knives.”

“Unfortunately for you, you don’t really have that option anymore,” Wash’s eyes flicker down to the spot where he knows there’s a thick scar under Tucker’s tank top. Tucker doesn’t seem to notice, just goes back to staring at the knife.

They stand like that for a while. Wash doesn’t try to break the silence, instead he waits for Tucker to make the next move.

Eventually Tucker rolls his shoulders and bounces the blade in his hand, “So what are we waiting for? Let’s fucking do it!”

Wash wants to ask him if he’s sure about this, but Tucker’s already walking back towards the center of the training room, knife in hand.

//

Why weapons training? I could have said anything fucking else.

His plan only extended so far as asking Wash for private lessons. The weapons training part was just the first thing he thought of in the moment. It’s not that he doesn’t need the training, in fact it’s something he’s kind of been avoiding since…

Since Felix dug a knife in his gut.

The plan was to get private lessons with Wash because, yeah, the guy’s pretty busy and maybe Tucker misses how much time they spent together at the crash site.

And maybe he has a thing for him, but that’s beside the point.

“Tucker?”

Wash is standing in front of him, hands on his hips.

Tucker stares blankly back at him. Wash sighs, “Look, if you can’t focus then I’m not going to waste my breath. We can try again tomorrow if you-”

“I’m focused! Totally focused. Like, so focused dude.”

Wash tilts his head to the side and crosses his arms, leveling Tucker with an unimpressed look.

“What? I was listening. Stay close, but not too close. If you’re too far away, you’ll eat shit. See? I got this.”

Wash looks at him with uncertainty, but eventually gives in, “If you say so.”

Wash gets into a sparring stance, prompting Tucker to do the same. Almost as soon as they’re both ready Wash moves into his space, taking a calculated swipe at his chest. Tucker just barely dodges the hit, but by the time he’s got his bearings Wash is on him again.

Before he realizes what’s happening Wash is slashing a line across his abdomen. Tucker tries to jump back and avoid the blow, but Wash hooks his ankle sending him crashing to the floor. Wash follows him down, pinning his arms to the ground with his elbows and holding the blade to Tucker's neck.

“I see you’ve really got a handle on this,” Wash deadpans. He’s got Tucker pinned to the ground, knees on either side of his hips.

Tucker should really be more concerned with the fact that he got taken out in less than 10 seconds. He should be, but he’s staring up at Wash and all he can think is Damn, I could get used to this. Well, not the knife part, but everything else, definitely.

Apparently Tucker stares for too long, because Wash’s eyes soften. He pulls the knife away from Tucker’s throat, but otherwise stays where he is. He searches Tucker’s face for something, “If this is too much we don’t have to do this right now. I’m sorry, I should have known-” 

Tucker rolls his eyes and snorts, “I’m fine, Wash. I just can’t believe you didn’t buy me dinner first. I didn’t think that was your style. Not that I’m complaining. I mean, you look great up there,” Tucker winks and nudges his hip against the side of Wash’s knee.

Wash’s eyes widen and he stands up abruptly, but not before Tucker sees his whole face turn pink. He glares down at Tucker in annoyance, voice thick with frustration, “If you’re not going to take this seriously then I’m not going to stay here and waste my time.”

He turns stiffly and begins to walk away, leaving Tucker on the ground. Shit. Tucker scrambles to follow him, grabbing his forearm, “C’mon Wash,” he stops reluctantly and turns to Tucker, “I promise I’m serious about this, I wouldn’t have asked you if I wasn’t.” Ok, that’s not entirely true, but now that he’s here, he might as well keep his promise.

Wash looks at him critically, then sighs, “I just- there’s going to be a next time, Tucker, I know you know that, but,” he stares down at Tucker’s abdomen. Oh, “if there’s something that can be done, something I can do to prevent it, then I’m going to do everything in my power to see that this doesn’t happen again,” he balls his hand into a fist, tensing the forearm Tucker is still holding, “I already lost one team. I won’t lose you guys too.”

When Wash doesn’t move Tucker removes his hand and lightly hits him on the arm, “You’re not gonna lose us Wash, we’re not going anywhere.” 

Wash relaxes slightly, meeting Tucker’s eyes again. There’s still annoyance in his voice, but it lacks the bite from before, “I might feel a little better about that if you’d actually listen to the things I’m trying to teach you.”

“I was listening, I just wasn’t-,” Wash gives him a testing look. Tucker sighs, “Can we just try it again?” Tucker points the knife at Wash’s face and smirks, “I won’t let you off so easy this time.”

Wash bats it away, a small smile forming at the corners of his mouth, “Right.”

Tucker knows this private training will probably be just as good for Wash’s wellbeing as it will be for his own. It might even help him sleep easier, that and my kickass piano playing.

Tucker smiles to himself as he gets in position for another sparring match.

//

“I mean this is like, stupid romantic right? Especially for me, and I don’t even mind, I think it’s fucking aweso- Ow, what the fuck!”

Grif kicks Tucker’s leg under the dining hall table and points a mashed potato loaded fork in his direction, “Despite what you may think, this is not ‘Tucker talks about his weird freelancer fantasies’ time. This is dinner time. It is for eating. Food. I will not let you ruin this for me.”

Tucker rubs his shin under the table, “First of all, the kick was unnecessary. Second of all, it’s not a fantasy! It’s literally happened every night for the past two weeks. Why won’t anyone believe me?”

“You’ve never told a single story about your love life that was actually true.”

Tucker frowns, “Bullshit, dude!”

“Would it make you feel better if I told you I don’t believe anything you say? Seriously, not a word of it.”

“Fuck. You.”

“Agent Washington doesn’t like music.”

Tucker turns to see Caboose occupying the seat next to him sporting a mildly confused expression.

“Caboose, when did you get here?” Tucker looks at Grif and Simmons, the latter having taken a sudden interest in their conversation, “Was he here the whole time?” Grif just shrugs and keeps eating.

“Yeah, you said Washington likes your piano music but I think that maybe you are confused because Washington doesn't like music very much.”

He says it like it’s a written fact, which only adds to Tuckers own confusion, “Why wouldn’t he like music? Why would anyone not like music?”

Caboose looks at him sadly, “Agent Washington does not like music because I asked him if he had any music on his data pad and he said no. It made me sad too, but then I decided that Agent Washington must like other things more to make up for not liking music so much,” Caboose smiles, then grabs the fork on his tray and begins eating the mess of mashed potatoes and ketchup on his plate.

Tucker doesn’t know what to make of that. It’s not exactly specific.

“I was actually wondering about that myself,” Simmons pipes up from where he’s sitting next to Grif, “a few weeks ago I was showing Jensen a new orchestral piece I found- well, not new, its technically thousands of years old- but that’s besides the point.”

Grif turns towards him, rolling his eyes as he goes, “You are the biggest fucking nerd.” Simmons slaps him in the shoulder and Grif snorts.

“Anyways, we were standing in the back of the training room when I was playing it for her, and I saw Wash walk in out of the corner of my eye. As soon as he heard it his whole body just went...rigid. I don’t think he knows I saw him, but he immediately turned around and walked back out of the room,” Simmons looks at Caboose, who is completely absorbed in his meal, “ I wonder if those two events might be related.”

“Or, you’re just being paranoid,” Tucker adds, “Maybe he just has a more refined music taste.” He laughs as Simmons scowls at him, “What? Dude, I’ve heard it. You played it at lunch a week ago and trust me; it’s not as good as you think it is.” 

Tucker just barely dodges the green bean Simmons launches at his head, “Whatever. My plan is great; you guys are just shitty friends.”

Tucker picks up his tray and stands. As he begins to walk away from the table he hears Simmons yell after him, “That would have required us to have been friends before! Which we weren’t!”

Without turning around Tucker flips him off and walks out of the dining hall.

I can’t believe I thought telling them about this was a good idea. Grif and Simmons are really the last people he should have considered talking to. It’s been years of watching them pine over each other and they still haven’t resolved their shit. Tucker shakes his head as he walks out into the hallway.

He’s gonna show them how to do some real romancing, Blue Team style.

//

They fall into a nice rhythm after that. Tucker, while not always the most focused, doesn’t give up the challenge so easily. Maybe it’s because he actually does want to be able to defend himself if, when, he fights Felix again, or maybe he’d just love to prove himself to Washington.

Right now, as he lay panting on the floor after successfully fending off Wash’s rubber blade, it’s definitely the latter.

Wash is packing up their training equipment for the day, which is good for two reasons: Tucker gets to lay on the floor in uninterrupted silence for at least 2 minutes, and he gets a great view of Washington’s ass. It’s truly the best way to end a training session.

It also gives him the perfect opportunity to think about how he’s gonna tell Wash about this whole mystery pianist thing. Because he’s definitely gonna tell him. And Wash will definitely fall for him, or at least that’s what Tucker hopes. He doesn’t exactly have a plan B so if this falls through-

A loud clap snaps Tucker out of his thoughts.

“Daydreaming?”

He jumps at the sudden noise, pushing his heels into the mat and scooting away from the sound, “Ah!- Jesus how long have you been standing there?”

“That’s not a very becoming trait, Captain.” His eyes focus to see an amused Washington standing over him.

“Maybe I was just thinking about kicking Felix’s ass one on one.”

“I’m sure that’s it,” Wash retorts dryly. Tucker takes the hand he offers and pulls him back onto his feet.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! this is my first (published) fic so i hope ya'll enjoyed :) i started this almost two years ago now and i figured finally posting the first chapter would inspire me to finish it. i'm guessing this fic will end up being 8-10 chapters total but idk anything could happen.
> 
> also, chapter titles come from Kai Engel songs (if you like instrumental/ambient type music you should check him out).


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